Letters to Hermione
by Trickster Puppet
Summary: Song fic. Hermione/Harry, with Ron love. Many letters, and a single book. A book for Hermione


**Disclaimers: Rowling owns Harry, Ron, Hermione, Aurors, and Diagon Alley. However, I own the graveyard, all the books that are mention in here, the pairings, Hermione's outfit, the new café on Diagon Alley.**

**Oh, and David Bowie owns the song – **_**Letters to Hermione.**_

**Read & Review is a big love.**

_The hand that wrote this letter_

_Sweeps the pillow clean_

_So rest your head and read a treasured dream_

Hermione could almost see Ron as she read his letter. See him at his desk, which she imagined to be one of simple make, scattered with this-and-that in his typically unorganized fashion. She saw his shoulders slumped like they had always done at school when he was writing, his chin lowered slightly.

His words danced across her eyes, and his voice rung in her ears, and in the mirage she saw before her as she imagined him writing this letter, he allowed a few tears to trickle down his cheeks and splash onto the page beneath his hand.

Hermione had only seen Ron cry twice. Once, when Fred died – everyone had cried that day, but her eyes had been only on Ron. The second time – the second time was when she and Harry told him they were getting married. It was the day the Golden Trio was no more.

"Oh, stop it Hermione. Crying over a lost cause won't change anything. Why would you even want it to change? You have Harry, you love Harry, you want to stay with Harry."

Hermione's words broke the still silence, and she pushed away the letter, before suddenly thinking better. Snatching up the parchment angrily, she reached for her wand, intent on burning the words of Ronald Weasley. However, she decided against such actions, and stuffed the parchment in her draw.

A loud crack in the front of the house alerted Hermione that Harry was home, and wiping her eyes once more, Hermione curled her mouth into what she hoped was a convincing smile and rose to greet her husband as he walked through the bedroom door.

Several hours later, Hermione lay in bed, one of Harry's arms wrapped around her. The moonlight cast a faint glow over her face, her open eyes. She couldn't sleep, she wouldn't go back to sleep. Not when that letter, not when Ron's voice, would come to haunt her.

_I care for no one else but you_

_I tear my soul to cease the pain_

_I think maybe you feel the same_

_What can we do?_

Ron stared lifelessly at the wall before him, slumped at his desks chair as he rolled a quill between his fingers idly. He had sent it. Sent Hermione his heart, his soul. Torn it apart, emptied it onto that parchment, and watched it fly away via a tiny owl he remembered none other then the notorious Sirius Black giving to him. He ignored the fact that Sirius had been Harry's Godfather. He ignored everything about Harry, except for Hermione. But then again, Hermione wasn't about Harry, she was just with him.

She shouldn't be with Harry. "She belongs with me. We belong together. She said she loved me. Loved _me_, not Harry." Ron spoke to the un-responding air, before once again letting the tears break through, roll down his cheeks, onto the desk. All the while, he couldn't help but wish they would wash away his memories.

_I'm not quite sure what we're supposed to do_

_So I've been writing just for you_

It had been three days since he had sent the letter to Hermione, with no response. Ron didn't stop to dwell on that, though – he just kept writing, like he'd been doing for four years. Four years since the fateful night they had destroyed Voldemort, almost lost Harry, and the night Ron had lost a brother. No. Two brothers. He had lost two brothers.

Harry had been his best friend, his brother, and then he wasn't. He grew up, he died for love, but he didn't die soon enough. Didn't die soon enough to save Fred. Or Collin. Or Lupin or Tonks.

One year later, Ron had lost Harry all over again. And along with Harry, he'd lost Hermione. But even that didn't stop him from writing. He wrote their story, his story, Hermione's story. He wrote of every Fred & George prank he could remember, every detention, fight, joke, or win at chess. Every time he'd flown, every time he'd fallen in love with Hermione Jane Granger that little bit more…

He lived off of what the Ministry called the dole. It was a muggle thing which they brought in to help witches and wizards after the war. Ron was still on it – he'd quite his job as an Auror-trainee when he found out about _their_ engagement.

_They say your life is going very well_

_They say you sparkle like a different girl_

"Hermione got promoted," a soft voice murmured in Ron's ear before he was wrapped up in the surprisingly strong arms of such a small girl. Ginny had suffered almost as much as Ron had – she'd lost a brother, a lover, a friend, a mentor and sisterly figure. But at least she still talked to Hermione, at least she still saw Hermione. They weren't great friends, but they were civil.

"Again," Ron replied as he turned his baby sister and began to walk her further into the graveyard. It was a new graveyard, only four years old, but already it held dozens of stones and angles. It wouldn't acquire any more, though. It was a graveyard for the Hogwarts Battle. There would be no more battles.

Familiar names caught Ron and Ginny's gaze as they walked purposely through the rows. Occasionally, they would stop to place down a rose, lily or some other precious gift.

_Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, Colin Creevey, Sirius Black…Fred Weasley_

"I heard a rumour she might be pregnant. She looks it – she sparkles and shines, like she's been born again." Ginny spoke again as she dropped down beside her brothers grave, tracing the words cut into stone, her fingers soon joined by Ron's. The fiery red head knew Ron hated being told, but that he had to in order to keep going. Keep living. Living memories he would never share with the only one he'd ever truly loved.

_But something tells me that you hide_

_When all the world is warm and tired_

_You cry a little in the dark_

Hermione closed the bathroom door behind her with a quiet click, before collapsing against it and sliding down to the cold tiles below. The room was dark, chill, and Hermione wrapped the dressing gown 'round her body tighter. Unintentionally, a hand slid down to her stomach, caressing the slight bulge there. It was the third time she had fallen pregnant, and the third time she would miscarry. She hadn't told Harry about being pregnant since the first time. She couldn't bear seeing the pain on his face again.

Cringing as another cramp struck her body, Hermione curled up in a tight ball, letting the tears fall.

_Well so do I_

Ron winced, rubbing a hand vigorously over his stomach in an attempt to stifle the pain that was gripping his middle. When it finally subsided once more, he went to pick up his quill again, but dropped it before it had fully left the table as another, much more severe, cramp attacked him.

Sliding off the hard backed chair, Ron squeezed his eyes shut, the candle toppling from the desk as he landed against it. It went out without so much as a spark, but the youngest male Weasley didn't see it. His eyes were clouding roo much.

_I'm not quite sure what you're supposed to say_

_But I can see it's not okay_

Hermione grabbed the book she'd been searching for hurriedly, carrying it in the crook of her arm as she rushed in the direction of the counter, turning quickly around the corners of bookcases in Flourish and Blots. She was running late for her lunch with Harry, but the shopkeeper had been terribly busy and she hadn't wanted to bother him with requests as to where a book was. As a result of her rush, she didn't notice the figure stepping around a bookcase as she did, and consequently bumped into them.

An assortment of blank-paged books, quills and ink dropped to the ground, the glass bottles shattering and coating both Hermione and Ron's things with black and scarlet. Cursing quietly, Ron removed his wand from within his robes and with a few simple spells, returned their objects to their original state. He still hadn't realized who it was he had bumped into, and knelt down on one knee to gather up his things. Ron grabbed Hermione's book last, still on one knee, and held it out to her. Only then did he allow his eyes to settle on her face.

Hermione drew in a sharp breath, staring down at Ron. It was a complete shock to have run into him, especially as she hadn't seen him in two years. He had definitely grown into himself, no longer a gangly teenager, but a fine looking man. Hermione chided herself for such thoughts, but her mind ignored her, jumping left right and centre. As a result, she couldn't help but notice how much Ron's position resembled someone proposing… she could even imagine him proposing to her with a book instead of a ring. And was it just coincidence that the book Ron was holding out to her, was on ancient wedding vows that Luna had been wanting?

"Hullo, Hermione. Or is it Mrs. Potter now?" Ron's voice brought Hermione out of her reverie, and she took the book with a shake of her head and unsure smile.

"Hermione is fine, thank you Ronald." There was a silent agreement between them that, after all they'd been through, last-name basis was just too strange, despite current circumstances.

"Uhm, well, I best be going. I'm late to meet Harry for lunch." Hermione gave the silent Ron another timid smile before hurrying around him and towards the counter. Ron watched her, a distant look on his face. When the door tinkled to signal her departure, Ron went ahead and paid for his own things.

_He makes you laugh_

_He brings you out in style_

_He treats you well_

_And makes you up real fine_

It was the second time he'd seen her in one hour. She was sitting with Harry, outside one of Diagon Alleys newer cafes. They were laughing, as Harry described something to his wife. To Hermione. Ron watched from across the street, the throng of shoppers keeping him from notice of the two. The red head watched as Hermione's curls rolled down her back, spilling off her shoulder, her eyes alive and bright.

He hadn't noticed when he had bumped into her, but she was well dressed. Dark grey, chic pants, black shoes, white blouse, looking every bit the lawyer on her break. Ginny was right – she did look bright, alive, loved.

Ron took one last look before turning away and joining the crowd as they hustled and bustled on their way.

_And when he's strong_

_He's strong for you_

_And when you kiss_

_Its something new_

"Hermione, why didn't you tell me you were pregnant again?" Startling green eyes stared at Hermione, full of hurt and worry. Unable to look at them, at any of him, Hermione turned away, hugging herself.

"I'm not."

"What do you mean, you're not? I had someone at St. Mungos today tell me congratulations for being a father to be!"

"I mean I miscarried," Hermione all but whispered, clinging tighter to herself. Harry stiffened behind her, before forcing his body to relax and enveloping Hermione into his arms. Burying his face into the hair against her neck, he sighed softly.

"Oh Hermione, why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't want to hurt you again."

Startled by her response, Harry stepped back, turning Hermione to him and lifting her chin. "Hermione, you could never hurt me."

And then he kissed her. Soft and short, then long and hard, full of passion and fire and lust and love. Hermione lost herself in that kiss. Anything to make her forget.

_But did you ever call my name_

_Just by mistake?_

Hermione tilted her head back, eyes glazing over as she felt him move inside her, his hands touching her, everywhere, never pausing. Fire seemed to ignite wherever he touched, and she raked her nails over his back, her small noises filling the room. It went on, and on, and she willed it never to stop.

A glimpse of red on the curtains, a sudden memory, telling herself she wanted to lose herself to Ron, because she loved him and no one else. A thrust, a draw, a thrust, a reach, a name.

"Ron."

Harry didn't hear her shout the name of their lost friend, her lost love. Didn't see the tears pouring down her cheeks as he collapsed on the bed beside her, drawing her into his arms and murmuring things in her ear she never would have thought he was capable of saying, four years ago.

She didn't hear him, though. Only heard Ron, saw his words dance in front of her eyes, feel his touch from whenever he had hugged her, poked her, wiped away the tears he had caused by saying something stupid, rash, and just so _Ronald._

Rolling onto her side, back to Harry, Hermione stuffed the corner of her pillow in her mouth to keep back the noisy sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.

_I'm not quite sure what_

_I'm supposed to do_

Ron lowered his quill as the sound of the last scratch faded away, and watched as the scarlet ink faded into the parchment, though it did not dim, merely dried to last forever. Several minutes later, Ron traced his fingers over the last words, the scarlet words, just as he had traced the words on his brothers head stone. Blinking back tears, Ron placed the last book with the rest. It had taken seventeen books and hours of spells to finish it, but it was done. She wouldn't see things, like Harry had with Riddle's diary – no, she would feel things. Feel his feelings, about everything, everyone, about _her_.

_So I'll just write some love to you_

A knock on the door caused Hermione to look up from the novel she was engrossed in, and she hurried to answer it. As the door swung open, however, it wasn't a person she saw there. Instead a floating book, large and what she supposed was heavy, covered in thick, dark red velvet and emblazoned with a golden title.

_I've Written All My Love to __**You**_

A glimpse of red hair out of the corner of her eye caused Hermione to look away from the book, only to see Ron walking away without a backward glance. Hermione stared, stared 'till he could no longer be seen, and finally took the book from its position floating before her. It would take a while to read, even longer because she would never let Harry see it, but one day she would read the scarlet words – and maybe, just maybe, finally decide to save her life.


End file.
